


Cobalt.

by floatawaysomedays



Series: Angels don't drink coffee. [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, reverse!verse, spn reverse!verse battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:04:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/floatawaysomedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean rescues the Righteous Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cobalt.

Finding the Righteous Man is a miracle in and of itself.

Storming Hell isn’t what he thought it would be. Dean assumed that it would be like parting the sea, like snapping his fingers. A few wingbeats, a touch of mojo, snap the guy back into his grave, and wha-la.

Instant Righteous Dude, a-la Dean.

Dean thought it would be simple, get in, get out, and get it over with. He didn’t think it would be _this_.

Days, months, years of searching in the dark, of fighting and flying, and then, _finally_ , Dean feels something tug at him, at his grace. Its barely there, but just insistent enough that he can't seem to shake it off. A buzzing, of sorts. He tells his garrison to change direction. Sam at his right, and Benny at his left.

The demons are one thing that hasn't changed. They’re smoke and horror and violence, curling in on themselves even as they try to lash out against wings and Dean’s blade cuts through them cleanly. They’re getting closer now. The buzzing has intensified to an almost unbearable ringing.

“Man.” Dean grouses, stripping what’s left of his suit jacket from his arms. “Demons have no taste.”

“Dude.” Sam flaps his wings once, and sinks his blade into the chest of the nearest demon. “Go ahead while you can, and let us finish here. It can’t be far now.”

It isn’t. Far, that is. Dean finds him past an outcropping of rocks, and a dozen racks line the torture fields.

Dean had really wanted him not to be here. Had hoped, this whole time, that the soul could have been spared from this. From the other side of the blade. That they would be able to save him in time. Dean scans the racks until the direction of the ringing is clear. Until he sees.

He’s everything Sam thought he would be, and nothing he should be.

It’s obvious he’s broken. He’s holding a knife in his right hand, both arms coated and covered in blood past his elbows.

But he’s not smiling like the other demons are. He’s not enjoying it. There’s no relish in the taunts. and that’s when Dean looks closer. Looks deeper, past skin and bone.

It’s breathtaking, if Dean needed to breathe. Gorgeous, even.

His soul is still bright. Different shades of blue wrap around each other. Turquoise melding with cornflower, sapphire clashing against periwinkle. The layers twist and bend and break.

Dean’s never seen anything like it.

Normally souls are one color. It starts out as a light version of greens or reds or purples and then diverges from there in vibrancy and variations.  Someone with a soul mate has a complementing color. Yellows with purples, browns with whites.

And Dean has watched some pretty amazing events. He’s watched war and destruction. Love and creation. The world has fallen down around his ears, and been built back up.

But this. This is something entirely new.

He has a bloody knife in his face, and the Righteous Man is snarling at him. He has a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and that jolts him out of whatever funk he was in. Wherever his mind wandered to.

He comes back online, and snaps to his senses, because it’s there, all of it.

This is Castiel Novak. He smokes, and drinks, on occasion. He loves old lore, books that are forgotten or lost. Castiel is a Hunter. He made a deal for his brother, Jimmy, when he thought there was nothing left for him. He endured thirty years before he finally gave into the madness, before he said ‘yes’ to Alastair. Before he took up his own knife, and started hacking away.

And he’s not afraid of Dean.

Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the fuck out of here.” Castiel pushes him away roughly, the sapphire cuts free of the periwinkle, rushing up to urge Dean away. “What are you waiting for? Run.”

Dean grabs his arms, forces Castiel to look at him. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m here to take you away from this place.”

“Bullshit.” Castiel spits. “It’s a trick.”

“I’m an angel of the-” He tries to yank his arm back, but Dean won’t let it go. He grips Castiel’s wrist. “Damn it, Cas. _Look_.”

Dean spreads his wings as wide as he can. They’re stiff and sore and heavy. Dean is exhausted with the weight of them, here, but the dark feathers fan out, and static crackles around them from the friction. The orange of his grace making itself known.

Castiel’s mouth falls open, lax. He stops struggling, and the set of his shoulders eases into something like relief. “It can’t be.” He protests. “Not for me. I’m the monster. Take them instead.” Castiel points at the rack, at the line beyond it. There are men, women, and children. Ragged and disjointed. “They still have a chance.”

Dean doesn’t understand exactly how Hell works anymore, but he realizes that it’s not anything like what was originally designed. There’s something flawed and inherently wrong with the realm. He can’t put his finger on it, but something edges at the corner of his mind. Whispers that this place was never meant to be twisted as it has been.

And as much as Dean aches at Castiel’s plea, he’s not here _for them_. Dean’s garrison has been given strict orders. Rescue Castiel, whatever the cost. Don’t stop, don’t pass go, don’t even consider breaking the seals until Castiel is saved. Until his soul is returned to where it belongs.

Broken or not.

Dean rubs his thumb on the inside of Castiels wrist, tenderly. Castiel’s soul glows something close to cobalt at the gentle touch, his eyes slip closed, his head tilts forward to land on Dean’s shoulder, and _that’s all, folks_. It’s raw and intense and Dean’s hand leaves a mark on Castiel’s wrist. He knows two things, the second is that this man tore him apart, and put him back together in between one heartbeat and the next.

The first, well.

“I’m not leaving here without you.”

 


End file.
